


Perfect Sense

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Incest, John's A+ Parenting, Language, M/M, Mentions of Crossdressing, Sam is fourteen, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, fuzzy gender boundaries (Sam)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: Sam is fourteen, and the only things he's learned about puberty come from pilfered library books—and watching Dean.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam/much older OMC (mentioned)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114





	Perfect Sense

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes are from _Henry V_ by Shakespeare and _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde.

"'You have witchcraft in your lips,'" Sam quotes, hanging over a sleeping Dean on his bed. He's on his hands and knees, face inches from Dean's, close enough to him to feel the heat from his sleeping body. Sam is fourteen, and the only things he's learned about puberty come from pilfered library books—and watching Dean.

Dean, who has his own room for the first time, and brings girls home when John's off on a hunt, is a sterling example of all those things Sam's read about. Sam has spent years watching Dean, emulating him when he thought it was okay, idolizing him when it was unavoidable, and generally making a nuisance of himself when it was inadvisable.

And the concluding paragraph in any essay about Dean is this: Dean's more beautiful than any of those girls, the planes of his chest more attractive to Sam than the tits on Dean's conquests, but it's his lips that take home the grand prize. Sam has studied sexuality, and he doesn't know how he feels about it, except inasmuch as it applies to Dean.

Sam has experimented with flowing nightgowns, with eyeliner and mascara, with long hair. He's cut it all off; he's worn daisy dukes and bent over the Impala's hood in gas stations, knowing that old, perverted men would stare. He's tried lip gloss and aftershave. He's a contradiction, and he knows it—and he's done all this practically under John's nose, even though he knows his father would probably beat him if he knew.

Sam once went around the back of a gas station with one of those perverted old guys—young by their standards, a scruffy dude who was probably on the north side of forty—and let the guy put his hands up Sam's cropped shirt, down his daisy dukes, his tongue in Sam's mouth.

And Sam only needed to do that once to understand: no one else was Dean, and there was no one else for Sam. Rubbery, wet lips on his… or he could yearn for these, the perfect plush pillows that Sam wishes would pucker up for him. The delicate shape combined with the indecency of their plumpness makes Sam's dick hard.

Sam's at an age where _everything_ should make his dick hard, but he can already tell the difference between a spontaneous boner that means nothing—and the pointed arousal he feels whenever he catches himself daydreaming about Dean.

"Shakespeare, Henry the fifth," Sam whispers, hardly daring to breathe. He can feel Dean's breath flutter over his own lips, and they feel so sensitive, electrified by the proximity to the kiss he's always wanted. "Sleeping beauty." Sam lifts his head, arches his spine, head falling back. His hands are still on the bed, one on each side of Dean's face, and his t-shirt is damp with sweat—the close, dense air in the bedroom is hardly stirring in the late afternoon heat—the skin over his hipbones feels stretched too tight, and his very bones ache as a result of his last growth spurt.

John has drilled into them the need to be constantly vigilant, and Dean's exhausted from a hunt, so there's no excuse for the almost criminal surprise Sam feels when hands land heavy and weighted on those extra sensitive hipbones.

"Sammy," Dean says. His voice is ragged from sleep, but he's not asking—why isn't he _asking_ , what Sam's doing on his bed? In his room, when they finally don't have to share?

How does Sam explain that he'd rather share, that he misses being a child, allowed to climb into bed with his big brother, to hug that body without it being weird? When did it _start_ , for it to be weird for Sam to touch Dean—but he couldn't view it that way, and didn't want to?

"Lemme go, dude," Sam says, throwing his leg over, trying to scramble off the bed, but Dean's grip tightens.

"'The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold,'" Dean murmurs, and Sam freezes like the rabbit that's just spied the fox. He couldn't have heard correctly—right? "C'mere, Sammy. Tell me what has you so riled up that you'd accost me in my bed."

"Nothin', Dean," Sam says, trotting out his perfected, most sullen pout. But Dean's lips curve. He rubs his thumbs over the soft, thin skin of Sam's hipbones, bare from the cropped shirt he's wearing. That part of his body that aches even as he breathes—and Dean's hands are so damn close to Sam's erection, the boner that sprang up from watching Dean sleep, and has gained strength and power since Dean started _staring_ at him that way.

"'The curves of your lips rewrite history,'" Dean breathes, finishing the quote, and then one of his hands is gone, suddenly on Sam's back, yanking him down, against Dean's body. Dean is damp and warm, the epitome of a sleeping person, and he smells like sleep as well, but his breath is somehow sweet—probably a function of the last thing he ate. And his green eyes—the color of rain-soaked grass in a lush green lawn—are filled with an emotion Sam can't read. Some of it's love, _that_ Sam expects, but—

"You're quoting Oscar Wilde," Sam says, vague disbelief coloring his words. "You studied _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ in school?"

"Nope." Dean cuddles him tighter and his hand molds itself to the curve of Sam's ass. Dean's always touched Sam however he wanted, but this feels… different. Charged. Sam can barely breathe through the arousal clogging his throat, and Dean has to be able to feel the stiff cock that's trapped between them. "I stole it from your schoolbag once. It looked interesting, so I read it." There's a long, long pause, before Dean says, "What? I read!"

Dean presses Sam closer—Sam turns his head, laying it on Dean's chest, and tries to think. _I'll get out of this hold, soon. Any time now. I know I'm capable of it._

"Dean!" Sam wriggles, but Dean's too strong to escape, and it's murder on the boner he's sporting—his cock thinks this is a _great_ idea.

"Henry the fifth," Dean drops directly into Sam's ear. Sam goes still with shock.

"You were awake?" This is terrible news. Sam's got no excuse, and there's—

"Sammy, it's okay." Dean turns his head, just a little, and then his hand is running up Sam's ribs. Sam becomes aware of the pounding beat against his ear—he'd thought it was his own heart, but no, that's _Dean_. Dean, who's still sleep-sultry and humidity personified on a dark night, who's damp and mussed. Dean, whose heart is a magazine of discharged rounds beneath Sam's ear, and who— They're plastered together, so Sam doesn't know why it took him so long to recognize the length of Dean's dick is rigid against his thigh. Sam's thigh, that is, not just Dean's.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Sam says miserably, wanting to crow about Dean's reaction, but at the same time struck by how _wrong_ it is—should be. Sam _knows_ it should be, but somehow… somehow he can't bring himself to believe that.

Because this is _Dean_. The guy who watched every phase Sam's gone through, from the one when he was five years old and insisted on wearing dresses for six months—John opposed it, wanted to belt it out of him, but Dean insisted John let him alone—to _this_ one, where he fancies himself in love with his older brother.

Except… this isn't a phase, and Sam has a feeling Dean knows that.

"Turn back, Sammy. Give over." Dean's hand cups the side of Sam's face, nudging him back so his head is raised a little and he can't hide from Dean's examination. But Dean doesn't look disgusted or dismayed. He doesn't look blindsided, either. He just looks… like Dean. Steady, dependable, Dean, with the lips of a back-alley whore and the heart of gold that no whore ever had. "Kiss me," Dean whispers, cradling Sam's skull and drawing him down.

And a lot of things go topsy-turvy at the feel, taste of Dean's lips, but everything else makes perfect sense.

Sam closes his eyes. The curve of _these_ lips, imbued with witchcraft—and filled with sin.

END


End file.
